A Sherlock Carol
by ILiveInFiction
Summary: On Christmas Eve, Sherlock is visited by four spirits, showing him his past, present, and future Christmases.
1. Chapter 1

The flat was small and messy. Take-out boxes littered the kitchen table, most of them months old. The refrigerator was empty save for a jar containing a frog whose skin had been inverted and a muffin tin holding five severed tongues. One of them sported a piercing.

The sitting room was a mess of papers and dust. The bedroom wasn't in any better shape. The bed was covered in a tangle of unwashed blankets and almost every surface was occupied by bits of string, jars filled with dubious concoctions and crumpled newspapers. There was even a welding torch in the corner.

The inhabitant of the flat was sprawled on the small mud-colored sofa, his dark curls shining from the grease they had accumulated from five days without being washed. Sherlock Holmes couldn't care less. He stated at the ceiling, gloating. The last gunman was dead. The final thread in James Moriarty's web of crime had been severed, and it was all because of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock ran his eyes over the walls of the flat. Tacked to it were hundreds of photos, articles and letters, red yarn criss-crossing and connecting them to each other. The photos all had a black 'X' on them. Sherlock had done it. It had taken him three years, but it was over now.

Sherlock expected to feel relieved, but instead of feeling a weight lift from his chest, he felt it pressing all the harder.

John.

Sherlock couldn't stop thinking about his friend. For three years, while he was hunting and hiding from criminals, all he could think of was John Hamish Watson. Wishing he was with him, wishing his blogger could accompany him. The texts hadn't helped.

Sherlock couldn't stop reading John's texts, no matter how hard they hurt him. Sherlock reached for his phone and opened his messages.

**Don't be dead, you bastard. **

**JW**

**Joke's over, Sherlock. Come back.**

**JW**

**I don't know why I'm still texting you. You're not listening.**

**JW**

**I'll always believe in you.**

**JW**

**Mycroft keeps checking up on me. I noticed how alike you two are.**

**JW**

**Sorry that I compared you to Mycroft.**

**JW**

**Still waiting for that miracle.**

**JW**

Sherlock continued scrolling. He had memorized every text, all 867 of them. Suddenly his phone buzzed.

**Merry Christmas, Sherlock.**

**JW**

Sherlock stared at the text, his thumb itching to hit the reply button. Why not? He could contact John without endangering him. The gunmen were dead. Sherlock took a deep breath. Instead of texting back, he found himself shutting his phone off. John would be a fool not to hate him by now, and Sherlock would be a greater fool to expect otherwise. John might plead for Sherlock's return through texts, but he wouldn't really want Sherlock back after three years. He deserved a normal, safe life.

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes. Overwhelmed by the sudden emptiness of his life, he allowed himself to drift into oblivion.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock quickly opened his eyes. He knew that voice. Sitting up, he found himself face-to-face with Jennifer Wilson's murderer. The Cabbie. Sherlock never bothered to learn his name. "You're dead." He plainly stated.

"Yes, I am." Replied the Cabbie.

"And I'm dreaming."

"You're wrong about that, Mister Holmes."

"I am conversing with a man who has been dead for four years. Of course I'm dreaming." Sherlock couldn't keep the scorn out of his voice. The Cabbie just grinned and, without warning, punched Sherlock square in the jaw.

"Does this feel like a dream?" he asked.

"A hallucination, then," Sherlock mumbled, rubbing his jaw. "I haven't slept for three days and I can't remember my last meal. This is my body's way of rebelling."

"Suit yourself. I'm not here to argue with you."

"What _are _you here for?"

"I'm here to tell you that you'll be visited by three spirits. One for each hour."

"Oh, so you brought friends? Why is the 'spirit world' paying such close attention to me?"

"We've come to change your mind, Mister Holmes."

"Change my mind? About what?"

"For such a clever man, you can be so thick, Mister Holmes."

"Change what?" Sherlock asked, before he realized he was talking to empty air. He was alone in the flat.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock jumped up and ran to the door. It was locked from the inside, just as he had left it. He checked the windows. They were their usual grimy and securely locked selves. "Perhaps I should establish regular eating habits," Sherlock muttered to himself as he flopped back onto the couch. Shivering, he pulled a blanket over himself. As he did so, he glanced at the clock.

**1:00**

"One o'clock, and no spirits yet!" Sherlock scoffed as he turned over and closed his eyes. Just as he felt himself drifting off he realized someone was pulling his blanket off of him.

"Give me my blanket, Mycroft!" he groused.

"I am not your brother." Said a soft voice. Sherlock turned round, unable to believe his eyes.

"Soo Lin Yao. You're also dead."

"Yes. I am dead." Her eyes were mournful as she was beautiful as she confirmed his statement.

"But why? Why you? Why am I hallucinating about you? First the Cabbie, and now you. Is it because I feel guilt? No. It's not guilt. John shot the Cabbie. I am not responsible for his death, and besides, I'm not guilty over your death!" Seeing the expression on Soo Lin's face, he rolled his eyes. "Yes, your death was unnecessary and unfortunate, but it was over four years ago! Why would I feel guilt over it after all this time?"

"I have been sent to you because of my regrets, and because of what you will regret."

"No, that can't be right. I don't have _regrets_." Sherlock spat out the last word. Soo Lin didn't reply, but offered her hand, her eyes more mournful than before.

"What's that for?" Sherlock asked, eyeing her hand suspiciously. "Oh, you want me to take it? Are you going to _'drag me into the spirit world?'_" He rolled his eyes again, clasping her hand. It was cool and soft. "Now what?" he asked impatiently. Soo Lin smiled, and before Sherlock could react, they were flying.

Sherlock yelled as he dangled in the air, being pulled through the London skies.

"SOO LIN! I'M GOING TO FALL!"

"Trust me."

"STOP BEING ALL ANGELIC AND CLICHÉ! I AM ABOUT TO FALL TO MY DEATH!" Sherlock winced at the irony.

"Just trust me. If you think you are going to fall, you will fall. If you want to fly, you will fly."

"Rubbish advice," Sherlock muttered under his breath, but closed his eyes. He imagined himself rising until he was level with Soo Lin. He imagined them soaring through the night, hand-in-hand. When he opened his eyes he found that he was no longer being dragged under Soo Lin, but was flying next to her. "What happens if I let go?" he asked. Before Soo Lin could answer, he wrenched his hand out of her grasp. Sherlock immediately plummeted towards the city. _A bit higher that St. Barts,_ he found himself thinking. _Well, John, I'm afraid there will be no more miracles after this._

A hand closed around his arm, pulling him out of freefall. "Don't let go again." Soo Lin reprimanded.

"So I can fly as long as I retain physical contact with you?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes."

_This dream is getting progressively stranger. _Sherlock thought as he sped over what was now the countryside. After a few minutes they began to descend. Sherlock would never admit it out loud, but he felt a small degree of relief when he felt the sturdy ground beneath his feet.

Sherlock blinked, realizing it was brighter than before. Judging by the position of the sun, it was early afternoon. Wrought-iron gates glared down upon the pair, a gargantuan Victorian-style mansion looming behind it. The sense of timelessness was somewhat spoiled by a speaker and security panel that stood just outside of the gates. It reminded Soo Lin of the drive-thru at a Mcdonald's. A very posh Mcdonald's.

"St. Julian's." Sherlock growled.

Sure enough, the sign over the gate proclaimed:

_**Saint Julian's Academy**_

_cuiusvis hominis est errare, nullius nisi insipientis in errore perseverare_

"Anyone can err, but only the fool persists in his fault." Sherlock translated. "Hypocrites." He spat, turning away from the gates. "This institution was founded upon foolishness, is run by fools and is still operating thanks to the errors fools. I had thought I would never see this vile place again."

Soo Lin placed a soft hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gently nudged him out of the road. "Watch," She whispered.

A black rolls-royce limousine became visible, making its way down the shaded road. It pulled up alongside the gate. The driver's window rolled down and a man's hand reached out and pressed a few buttons that were on the security panel.

"Name?" A bored, female voice asked.

"Cameron." The man answered.

"Please enter your security PIN." The woman said in complete monotone. The hand punched out a few buttons. After a pause the gates slowly opened inward. The car proceeded forward.

This happened again and again. A car would pull up to the gates, offer their name, punch in their PIN and enter. After about fifteen minutes, the first rolls-royce left, leading the parade of elite automobiles.

"Come, Soo Lin said, once again offering her hand. Sherlock took it, and he found himself standing in a vast lobby. How long had it been since he last set eyes on it? Seventeen years? Fifteen? His thoughts were interrupted by a shrill voice.

"Mycroft!"

Sherlock turned around to see a small boy bursting through the double doors. His curly dark hair was flopping every which way, and his thin body was moving across the room at an incredible velocity for one so small. Another boy, seven years older than the child, met him halfway and swept the younger into his arms. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock the elder realized he was gaping. "They- they can't see us?" he asked. Soo Lin shook her head. "We can only watch."

Sherlock looked on in astonishment as his seven-year-old self allowed his hair to be ruffled by Mycroft.

"We've come to take you home!" the small boy piped.

"Yes. I know. I'm coming home for the holidays." Mycroft replied, letting his brother climb back down. "Back to our dysfunctional relations. I have often thought," he continued as he grabbed his bags, "that our family would be worthy of its own Shakespearean drama. I wish the bard himself could meet us."

"I would be the one who killed everyone!" The young Sherlock's eyes brightened at the grisly preposition. "I could be Hamlet!" as the two boys left the building, he turned to his brother. "Don't fret. You could live. You could be my Horatio!" And with that, Sherlock and Soo Lin were alone.

"Mycroft could never be likened to Horatio," Sherlock grumbled. "He's too bloody controlling. However, as Claudius, he would be spot-on." Soo Lin didn't answer, but offered her hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but took it.

"Merry Christmas, brother dear."

Sherlock saw a man dressed in an expensive suit, an umbrella hooked over his arm.

"Piss off." A young man muttered. Sherlock's past self was lying face-first on a stained, ripped carpet. His clothes were rumpled and his hair was greasy.

"No, Sherlock. I will not 'piss off', as you so eloquently phrased."

"Shut up."

"I want you to come home for Christmas."

"Why should I?"

Mycroft sighed and prodded his brother with the umbrella. "Because," he continued as his brother snarled, "It would mean a great deal to mummy."

"Mummy never cared about us."

"It would mean a great deal to me."

Sherlock remained silent. Mycroft pressed forward. "Christmas is a time for family. I know that our childhood was…less than orthodox, but you are my brother. That means that I will always be here for you. I care for you Sherlock.

"Then why did you leave?" Sherlock raised his head. His face was gaunt and grimy. Something went and dark dripped from his nose. "Why did you leave me alone that house with them?"

"Sherlock, we all have lives to live. We all make our own path. I saw an opportunity, and I took it. I expect you to do the same.

For a moment Sherlock stared up at his brother, his expression unreadable. Then he snarled. "Get out, Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed and turned around. As he exited the dingy apartment, he called back, "I always thought Sherlock Holmes would amount to more than a cocaine addict."


End file.
